


Live Through This

by Becks_Rylynn



Series: How the Light Gets In [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Deleted Scene, F/M, Family Drama, Grief/Mourning, aka Sara's adventures in grief and babysitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becks_Rylynn/pseuds/Becks_Rylynn
Summary: ''It is June.I am tired of being brave.''- Anne Sexton.June 2016. In the wake of Laurel's death and Black Canary's subsequent unmasking, Sara returns home and attempts to piece herself back together under the looming shadow of her now larger than life big sister while her sister's widower rapidly comes unglued.A HTLGI deleted scene.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sara Lance, Laurel Lance & Sara Lance, Laurel Lance/Dean Winchester
Series: How the Light Gets In [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623454
Comments: 7
Kudos: 4





	Live Through This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missourielephant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missourielephant/gifts).



> (Quick warning: This is part of my larger fic - How the Light Gets In - and while it can be read by itself, it would help to read the other fic in order to properly understand the universe this is set in.)
> 
> Okay, so here the thing:
> 
> The next chapter of HTLGI is going to look a little different. It's going to be told entirely through Sam and Sara's POV. Because it's about time the younger siblings got a chance to tell their view of everything that's going down. It's also going to be the first chapter not to feature flashbacks. Just too much going on in the present day sections to make room for them honestly. 
> 
> I made the decision to cut the flashbacks from the chapter awhile ago but, of course, I already had the flashbacks ready to go by that point. A wiser woman would probably just put a pin in them and save them for a later date, but I have never claimed to be a wise woman so I decided to flesh them out a bit and turn these deleted scenes into full on mini HTLGI fics. I wasn't going to post them until after the next chapter is posted, but then I found out that today is someone's birthday...
> 
> missourielephant has been a loyal supporter of HTLGI since day one and actually is the one who created the awesome TVTropes page for this fic! I admit that a fic about grief is not the happiest birthday present ever, but I know you care deeply about the Canary Sisters relationship so I do hope you like this piece. :)))

.

.

.

_It is June.  
_ _I am tired of being brave._  
**\- Anne Sexton**

.

.

.

**June, 2016**

Sara has never understood the gravestones with pictures on them.

It's always seemed morbid and depressing to her. Nine times out of ten, when you encounter one of those fancy headstones with the little picture of the deceased, it is the grave of a young person. Someone who died tragically, before their time, and their family is still screaming, still drowning in the unfairness of it all, and all they want is for the world to scream with them.

They put a picture on the headstone in a wailing, desperate attempt to do something. To make their grief mean something. Give purpose to something so absurd. Tell the world that their loved one should not be in the dirt; look how young and full of life they were, this isn't fair, tell me you know this isn't fair, tell me you feel as sad as we do, tell us you hear our grief.

Her sister's headstone has a picture on it.

Suppose that's fitting.

The picture isn't recent, it's from 2012, it's from Laurel's wedding day. Her smile is almost blinding. She looks so happy. Sara understands, now, why Dean wanted that picture on the headstone. Why everyone wants a picture on the headstones of lost loves. Her sister was once very alive, with her entire life ahead of her, and now she is in a box in the dirt and she didn't get to live the life that was stretched out in front of her. She didn't get to turn thirty-one, or grow old with her husband, or take her daughter to school on the first day, and it _is_ unfair, it's all so unfair. People should know that. Sara wants them to know that. She doesn't know why she wants them to know that. She just wants to be heard.

You don't understand the wailing, desperate hysteria of grief until you're there.

Sara visits her sister’s grave every day.

She has been in Star City for over two weeks now, kicking around uselessly, sleeping on her father's couch, trying to get to know her niece without flinching when she looks at her, and she comes here every day. She brings flowers. Laurel loved flowers. She loved her more. Sara is trying to apologize for taking that for granted.

Laurel does not know any of this, of course, because she's dead.

She doesn't care about flowers. She doesn't care about the picture on her headstone, the wailing grief, the unfairness of this life, or Sara. She doesn't care about anything anymore. She's just a body. There is nothing left of her here.

It is much too late for apologies.

Nevertheless, Sara comes every day.

She brings the flowers and she touches the little picture and she tries to remember what Laurel's favorite song was and she reads the part of the inscription on her murdered thirty year old sister's grave that says ''beloved mother'' and she thinks about Mary and how stupid this is. It is all so stupid.

The part that she has not gotten morbidly used to is that she is not the only one who does this. Her father stops by at least once a week, so does Thea, she's run into Laurel's friend Joanna several times, and she knows that Ollie is bribing the groundskeeper to take special care of the gravesite, but that's not what she means. Laurel's family and friends are in mourning, still stunned and devastated, stuck in that unfairness, but they are far from the only ones. That is one of the things Sara has learned over the past couple weeks.

See, Laurel Lance was loved by many people. Her obituary said that she was survived by her husband and daughter, her parents, her younger sister, and more friends than she ever could have imagined, and she was. She was cherished. She was loved, she was so very loved, even if she didn't know it.

But.

Black Canary was _revered._

In the time since her passing, her grave has become a shrine.

Every day, Sara brings flowers, something small that she can afford, and every day, there is more. She knows there's talk of building some sort of monument for the public to have (although, given how controversial vigilantes are, she doubts that will ever happen) but, for now, all they have is her grave, and the citizens of Star City have made their mark. Flowers - fancy bouquets, handpicked wildflowers, roses clipped from someone's home garden - and notes, candles and stones and trinkets, drawings, poems, things left by adults, children, parents, grandparents. This entire city feels the same sting of grief and shock.

She doesn't know how to feel about that. On the one hand, it is nice to know so many people cared. It’s nice to know she is not alone in her grief. On the other hand, she wonders if Laurel would think of it as too much. A spectacle. She didn't put on that mask to be praised or eulogized or sainted. She didn't think of herself as extraordinary. She just wanted to help.

''I want what everyone wants,'' she said. ''A safer city. A better world. I do what I can.''

It was that simple to her.

_I do what I can._

And here she is now: Star City's beloved heroine, their beacon of light; dimmed. Adorned with flowers and this city's outpouring of raw emotion. It's not the sea of flowers outside Buckingham Palace after Princess Diana's death, but a shrine is a shrine. People don't know what to do with grief, they don't know where to put the love and the respect and gratitude they had for her now that she's not here, and so they bring her flowers. A lovely act of kindness, if not a little much.

Truth be told, Sara hadn't realized Black Canary was this big of a deal. The Canary certainly never was.

Sara hated being Canary. She really did. No other way to put it. It was something forced on her, not something she chose. She was feared, not loved. The Canary was created to take lives, not save them. She was made for violence and bloodshed, and Sara tried to change that, she did, she tried to make her into something better, something virtuous and meaningful, something good, but she always felt like she was just wearing a costume. It was never who she was supposed to be. Belonging was something she found elsewhere - on that weird time machine ship with those weird outcasts of hers, living in pockets of time, saving history.

The Black Canary, however... Now she was meant for more. She had a lot more to give than just violence. She handed out kindness. She gave people hope. Even love. Probably helped old ladies cross the street and made sure people in the Glades got their groceries and saved kittens from trees. That sounds like something her ridiculous, idealistic, wonderful do-gooder sister would do.

Always such a little goody two shoes.

Sara never stays long on her daily visits. Somehow, in death, her intimidating older sister's shadow has managed to become even bigger than it was when she was alive. She is now officially larger than life. Something almost mythic. That shadow goes on forever. It swallows Sara whole every time she is at that grave, leaving her feeling sick and suffocated with guilt.

That's kind of annoying.

Should have known Laurel was going to be maddeningly holier-than-thou even from the grave. That sounds like her.

She keeps thinking about how she didn't tell her how proud of her she was. She doesn't know why she didn't say it. Guess she just thought she had more time. She should have told her that. There are so many things she never got to tell her. Laurel literally gave her life and Sara couldn't even be bothered to stick around long enough to properly thank her.

How shitty is that?

Sara swings by later than usual today, creeping slowly through the graveyard with the single white calla lily she picked up at the Farmer's Market, approaching - as usual - with extreme hesitance, guilt tickling her throat, stinging her eyes. Like smoke.

It's a nice day today, warm and sunny, with a bright blue sky up above, no threat of rain. It’s a still day, with little wind, only a small breeze blowing in from the direction of the ocean. It rustles the leaves in the tree softly, but the sound of birds chirping above is mostly what is filling the silence of the boneyard, mournful somehow, as if they know where they are.

There is only one new addition to the shrine other than her lily. A single piece of paper, tucked under a votive candle on top of the headstone to keep it from blowing away. The candle is lit, flame dancing in the open air. The person who left it must have just been here.

Sara looks around, searching for any sign of another person, but there's nothing. She plucks the piece of folded up paper, feeling both intensely curious and intrusive all at once. She doesn't think Laurel would mind her reading her fan mail, but whoever wrote it might.

It is not fan mail.

It's a poem, a long one, handwritten in delicate, loopy scrawl. She skims the verses of the poem quickly and something about it makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, makes her skin crawl.

_''Peel off the napkin_  
_O my enemy._  
_Do I terrify? --_

_The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?_  
_The sour breath_  
_Will vanish in a day._

_Soon, soon the flesh_  
_The grave cave ate will be_  
_At home on me_

_And I a smiling woman._  
_I am only thirty._  
_And like the cat I have nine times to die.''_

Nope.

Don't like that.

Sara doesn't finish reading the poem. Disturbed, but unable to decipher why, she blows out the candle, folds the piece of paper back up and slips it in the back pocket of her jeans. She doesn't give it back to Laurel. It feels wrong somehow. Like it's mocking her.

It's a Plath poem, a quick Google search tells her that, and you can always count on her to be as depressing and unnerving as humanly possible, but it's an odd thing to leave on a dead woman's grave. It's not like there are no pretentious poets or bibliophiles in Star City. This is the Pacific Northwest, birthplace of the hipster, you can't walk down the street without running into one of them, but this poem doesn't exactly scream grief.

It's called Lady Lazarus. It's about death.

And resurrection.

She doesn't want to read too much into it, but it stings. It's like someone is trying to tell her something. Get off your selfish flat ass and return the damn favor. She sighs and looks at the picture on the headstone. The woman in the picture is beaming, happy on her wedding day, hopeful for the future, so brilliantly alive it's practically blinding.

Yeah, okay, that's enough grave time for today.

''I should probably get going,'' she says to the picture. ''It's getting late and I promised Mary I would come over for dinner.'' She pauses at that, biting down on her lip. ''She's getting so big,'' she adds on, as if Laurel can hear her. ''She's such a chatterbox. And she's feisty.'' She chuckles a little. ''Your girl's got sass. She's gonna run circles around her poor dad. Figuratively speaking. Although her balance is getting better, don’t worry. And she still laughs a lot,'' she tacks that part on hastily, almost desperate. ''I - I want you to know that. I know you'd worry about her being traumatized by this. I want you to know she still laughs. And she's smart. She's so smart. Like, wise beyond her years smart.'' She smiles faintly. ''I bet she got that from you.''

No one responds to her nervous chatter.

''Anyway,'' she swallows hard. ''I should - Yeah. I should go. Same time tomorrow?''

The picture on the grave cannot answer her.

She trudges out of the cemetery feeling, as usual, heavy and drenched in grief. Mourning is a strange space to live in. It's more physical than she thought. Her back hurts more often these days. Her shoulders and neck feel tense. Her throat always aches. It truly is like she's carrying something. Something far too heavy for anyone to carry alone.

She drags her feet when it comes to heading to Avalon Park. It _is_ true that she promised Mary she would come for dinner tonight. She's just been dreading it all day.

She's spent the past few nights in the city, mostly with her dad, listening to him talk about Laurel and the way she was. She had dinner with Ollie last night - partly because he paid but also because he just seems so lonely - and neither of them ever even mentioned Laurel's name, but she was still there, the weight on Oliver's back, the silence between them, the empty look in their eyes.

None of that, not Oliver's moping, not even her father's frequent weeping, can compare to the heaviness of Laurel's home in the suburbs. The air in that house is so thick with grief and loss that it feels like a suffocation risk. She steps inside and suddenly she's choking on the absence. It's like the place is full of nothing but static, except instead of pinprick shocks, it's just pulsating, inconsolable sorrow as far as the eye can see.

It's not the fault of the current occupants, not even Dean who walks around with a dark cloud chained to him, constantly teetering on the edge of drowning every day. It feels like it is the house itself. It's a dead woman's house and you can feel that, see that, practically taste it in the air when you walk in. She is somehow everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

You do not have to be an actual ghost to haunt a home.

Still, Sara shows up.

She doesn't know why Mary loves her so much, how she is so worthy of that little girl's adoration, but she doesn't want to disappoint her. She certainly disappoints her niece's seemingly permanently exasperated father though.

He opens the door and as soon as he sees it's her, his face falls. ''Damn,'' he mutters, though there is no real malice or heat behind his words, just disappointment.

She still raises her eyebrows. ''Nice to see you too, Dean.''

''No, that's not - '' He ushers her inside, shutting the door behind her. ''I thought you were someone else. I...'' He pauses, digging his phone out. ''Cas was supposed to be bringing some groceries.''

''I could've brought groceries.''

He doesn't respond, still staring down at his phone. He's not doing anything. Just staring.

''...Dean?''

He looks up blankly. ''What?''

''You okay?''

He looks seriously unamused by the question. ''Is that a serious question?''

Fair enough.

''Auntie Sara!'' In the living room, Mary pokes her head out of an impressive looking blanket fort. ''Look!'' She cries out. ''A fork!''

''Fort,'' Dean corrects.

''That's what I said.''

''Wow,'' Sara puts on a big grin. ''That's so cool! Did your dad help you with that?''

She looks over at Dean, but he has already wandered away from them, into the dining room. He looks overwhelmed. He's not doing anything, but he looks lost. Sara wants to say more to him, but Mary's already latched onto her, grabbing her arm and pulling her over to the fort, demanding she take off her shoes in her tiny squeaky voice.

It does occur to Sara, as she's settling into Mary's cozy fort, that there is no one else here. That's not usually the case. Thea lives here so she's here more often than not, Sam and Cas have been hovering around Dean constantly, even her dad spends a lot of time here these days. But tonight it seems to be just Dean and Mary.

Not gonna lie, that makes her nervous.

She does not want to sleep with her sister's husband.

Let's get that out of the way right now.

She should not need to add that disclaimer to her life, but the unfortunate fact is that she has made a few bad choices in the past that deem it necessary. He is a physically attractive guy, sure, and if, in another life, they had met first, probably in some tacky dive bar in the bad part of some seedy small town in the middle of nowhere, he definitely would have been her next mistake. Like, she wouldn't even question it.

However -

A) that is not what happened so it's a moot point.

And B) his personality pretty much cancels out his hotness. He's just Laurel. Except somehow he is even _more_ annoying.

Hard pass.

It's just that she doesn't know how to talk to him. They've never done that without Laurel there to be the buffer. Actually, now that she's thinking about it, she's not sure she's ever been alone with him for any real length of time at all. He has driven her places a few times before but they haven't ever really talked about anything important. Huh. That's kind of weird, right? It feels weird.

''Auntie Sara!'' Mary yelps out. ''Hugs, hugs!'' She flings herself into Sara's arms happily, throwing her teeny arms around her neck.

Sara hugs back eagerly. She is not the biggest hugger anymore, it's one of the many elements of humanity the League tends to take from you, but there are exactly three people she's always willing to hug. Dad, Laurel, and Mary. She always misses their arms when she's away. If she had known the last time she was here, that it was going to be the last time she ever got to hug her sister, she would have hugged her longer. She wouldn't have pulled away at all. Mary hugs like her mother. Warm and soft like Laurel. Sara tries to swallow down the lump in her throat and closes her eyes, breathing in Mary's scene, trying desperately not to make a scene. She does her best to smile when Mary pulls away.

''Hi,'' Mary chirps, patting Sara's cheek. ''Are you happy today?''

Sara's caught off guard by the question. ''I am,'' she says. ''I'm with you.''

Mary grins, looking bashful.

''Are _you_ happy?''

Mary thinks about that for a minute and then says, happy as a clam, ''I had chicken nuggets for lunch.'' And that's that. That's her answer. She says it very firmly. Happiness, for her, is a chicken nugget. ''And I got this!'' She plucks a toy from the blanketed floor of her fort, holding it out to Sara. ''Angry bird!''

''Neat,'' Sara takes the cheap happy meal toy. ''My lunch didn't have a toy.''

Mary giggles, but turns away from her, searching for something in the cluttered fort. ''Daddy's not happy,'' she says, throwing a few of her stuffed animals out of her way.

Sara catches that old familiar stuffed shark when it ends up tossed, instinctively curling it to her chest. ''No?''

''He's sleepy.'' Mary finally produces what she's looking for - that raggedy homemade blanket that her mom lovingly and painstakingly sewed for her. ''We had a nap,'' she says, plopping herself down on her pillow fort. ''He's still sleepy.''

''I think your dad's been having trouble sleeping lately,'' Sara says.

''Why?''

''I...'' Sara grasps for an answer. ''I don't know. Grown ups just...have trouble sleeping sometimes. He has a lot on his mind.''

''He's not happy,'' Mary repeats with a knowing nod. ''Maybe he needs Mommy to come rub his tummy.''

Sara looks at her niece for a second. Okay, that one threw her. Gotta put that out there. That one got her. ''...What?''

''Mommy rubs my tummy when I'm sleepy.''

Oh, okay, yes, that makes more sense.

''Mommy's finished now,'' Mary says seriously. She says that a lot. It seems to be the only thing she's really able to understand about death. Hurts like a bitch every single time she says it.

Sara struggles soundlessly for a second, but all she manages to get out is a quiet, almost strangled sounding, ''Yeah.''

Mary takes it in stride, perking up. ''You could rub my daddy's tummy.''

''Um,'' Sara releases a nervous, oddly high-pitched sounding chuckle. ''I don't...know if that's...'' Red creeps up her neck. ''Maybe we'll just...put a pin in that idea for now.'' Hopefully forever.

Mary seems unbothered by that, but undeterred in her search for some way to help her dad. She roots around in the pile of stuffed animals beside her and comes up with a shirt. ''I got this,'' she says happily. ''It's Mommy. She sleeps with me.'' She thrusts the shirt at Sara. ''Smell, smell.''

Sara reluctantly takes the shirt, which she recognizes as an old long sleeved baseball tee that Laurel used to wear to bed on cold nights. She is not particularly interested in smelling it and being reminded, yet again, of that gaping hole in the middle of the world, but Mary is so excitedly urging her to smell it. There's no way out. She inhales hesitantly and - yeah, that's Laurel. That's the ghost in the machine. It hits her like a bricks. She doesn't say anything other than a vague ''hmm'' of approval, handing the shirt back to Mary as fast as she can.

It is fucking _depressing_ the way Mary is so excited and happy to have that shirt, the way she calls it Mommy and hugs it. She should be hugging her mother. She should be sitting here with Laurel. Not just some unwashed pajamas and an estranged aunt she barely knows.

''Have you had dinner yet?'' Sara asks, trying to push past how unsettling that was.

''Daddy's making dinner,'' Mary says, and then, right on cue -

''Hey, pumpkin,'' Dean's voice calls out. ''Time to eat!''

Mary scrambles over to the opening of the fort, pulling back the blanket curtain. ''Daddy, we should - we should eat in the fort.''

Sara fully expects Dean to shoot Mary down and tell her to get her little butt over to the table. That's what he would normally do. Instead there is a lengthy pause and then he says, ''Uh, yeah. Yeah, okay, I guess that's okay.''

Uhhh, what?

Sara watches curiously as Dean pulls the blanket back to deliver Mary her dinner. One of those little plastic divided plates with a slice of saucy, watery looking frozen pizza, some cucumber slices and baby carrots, and a dish of ranch. There is so much on that plate that could spill. Listen, Sara is not a parent so maybe she can't judge here, but she has seen how messy Mary eats - all fingers - and she feels like this is a bad idea. This fort is full of pillows, blankets, and about seventy million stuffed animals. He didn't even give her a paper towel or anything.

He disappears as quickly as he appeared, leaving Sara to watch Mary start digging into her pizza with her fingers.

Not a single paper towel in sight.

She gives it about a minute, watching Mary eat each olive off the pizza with her fingers, and then pick up a slice of cucumber, dip it in the ranch, and promptly drop it on one of the pillows. ''Oopsie.''

''Hey, baby, what do you say we go eat dinner at the table?''

''No.'' Mary shakes her head. ''I wanna eat in my fort.''

She plucks the cucumber from the pillow, pops it in her mouth, wipes her hand on her shirt, and since there's nothing to wipe up the ranch on the pillow, she uses her sleeve.

Oh my god, _that's_ why Dean does so much laundry.

''I know, but...'' Sara stops. All right. Okay. She can handle this. What would Laurel do?

...Get Dean to deal with it, probably. Which, you know, tempting. Except he seems like he might be going bonkers right now. So. Not an option.

''Do you want to play Chutes & Ladders?''

Mary doesn't even look up. She does pick off a piece of green pepper, flick it aside, and then wipe her hand on her purple pants. ''No.''

''What about Candyland?''

Mary looks up. ''Yeah!''

''All right, let's do it,'' Sara cheers. ''But we have to play it at the table so how about we go sit at the table and I'll set up the game while you eat your dinner?''

Mary bobs her head up and down, letting her aunt steal her plate. ''Okay! Can Daddy play?''

''Sure, of course he can.'' Sara manages to take the plate in one hand and Mary's tiny hand in the other, leading her out of the fort without getting her greasy, ranchy hands all over.

''Daddy!''

Dean, sitting at the dining room table with his phone pressed to his ear, looks up at the sound of her voice.

''Candyland!'' Mary shrieks. She abandons Sara and her plate to scamper over to him as fast as her wobbly legs will take her. ''Play with me!''

''I - Hold on, I'm sorry.'' He pulls away from his phone call, distractedly trying to shush Mary. ''Mary, go eat your dinner.''

''But - ''

''Kid, I'm sorry, but that's gonna have to wait. I'm on the phone.''

Mary groans, clutching at his hand. ''Don't be on the phone,'' she whines.

''Mary, I can't do this with you - No, no, no, wait, don't put me on hold! Don't put me on - '' He breaks off in a frustrated groan - apparently he has, in fact, been put on hold - and drops his head onto the table.

Mary whines at him again, ''Stop talking on your phone.''

Sara figures she should probably jump in. She does her best to usher Mary over to the other end of the table, setting her up with her food, but turns out it is somewhat difficult to get a three year old to be quiet. She's just hoping Mary's hungry enough to focus on stuffing her face instead of talking.

Honestly, she just came here to have dinner with her niece and be the cool fun aunt. She did not sign up to be free childcare.

Also, not that it's important, but she would like to point out that she has not even been fed.

Anyway, she's a terrible babysitter.

Once, when she was seventeen, she babysat for a family who lived down the street from her grandparents. She plied the kids with sugar, accidentally got the toddler chanting ''fuck'' when she stubbed her toe, and nearly started a fire. She was not asked to babysit a second time and her grandparents had to start going to a different supermarket to avoid the family.

She does successfully get Mary to focus on her dinner, but that victory only lasts about five minutes. She turns her back to get Candyland out of the cabinet in the corner of the dining room and when she turns back, Mary's hustled back over to Dean, clinging to him and whining for him to get off the phone. Normally, she'd just let him deal with it because he is the parent, but it's pretty obvious that he's already frustrated with whoever he's calling so she better do something.

Her first idea is to just pick up Mary and put her back in her seat, but the kid just giggles and seems to think it's some kind of game, skipping back over to Dean every time Sara takes her eyes off her. He does try to leave, but pacing around in the hallway is not exactly helpful. As long as she can see him, she's going to keep going for him. Sara winds up having to sit at the table with Mary in her lap, getting her to ''help'' set up Candyland with her messy fingers, periodically breaking to get her to eat a few bites. It's, like, _fully_ mind numbing. There is so much hand wiping.

How do people do this and...enjoy it?

Kids are cute and all, but Sara thinks she is maybe better suited for being cool auntie Sara rather than Mom. When she eventually retires from The Life, she'll just get a bunch of turtles. Maybe a chinchilla. Mary can come visit. Then go home at the end of the visit.

Over in the living room, Dean is still pacing and, from the sounds of it, trying to cancel Laurel's gym membership. Which seems about as easy as taking care of this three year old. At least Mary occasionally offers Sara a carrot or a wayward piece of pepperoni. He's getting nothing over there.

''Auntie Sara,'' Mary says, flicking a green pepper almost clear across the table. ''Do you like cats?''

''Yeah, cats are cool,'' Sara says, struggling to reach for the discarded, mushy pepper to put it in a napkin.

''And dogs?''

''Sure, I like dogs.''

Mary swivels her neck around to peer up at Sara. ''I can sign dog and cat.''

''Wow, that's awesome,'' Sara enthuses. ''Can you show me?''

Happily, Mary shows her, with a lot of love and care, the sign for dog and the sign for cat. She looks so proud of herself. ''Mommy showed me,'' she says.

''That's amazing! You're a smart cookie, baby.''

''Mommy's a smart cookie,'' Mary says sagely. Then, because this is their life now, ''Auntie Sara, are there cats and doggies in Heaven?''

Sara freezes up. ''I...I don't know.''

Mary seems disappointed. ''Oh.''

Sara struggles for something to say to that, but she's got nothing.

Mary takes a bite of her pizza and says, muffled, ''I like lizards!''

Could not have guessed that was going to be her next thing. ''Lizards?''

''Yep! Do you like lizards?''

''I - I mean, yeah, I guess they're okay.''

''Yes, I realize my name isn't on the account,'' Dean's voice drifts over to them, rising in frustration. ''Like I said, I'm her husband.''

Sara clears her throat, trying to draw Mary's attention back to her. Okay. Lizards. She can work with that. ''You ever seen a bearded dragon?''

Mary looks up at her, brows furrowed in confusion. ''A...dragon?''

''Yeah. Here.'' Sara pulls out her phone and quickly googles a few pictures of bearded dragons, handing the phone over to Mary.

''Look, all I'm trying to do is cancel a membership,'' Dean says. ''It shouldn't be this hard. It's a gym membership. I'm not trying to hack into NASA.''

Luckily, he says it low enough that Mary doesn't pick up on it. She's too busy looking at the pictures of bearded dragons, giggling about how ''funny'' they are. ''I want a dragon,'' she declares.

''Yeah?'' Sara grins. ''Maybe for your birthday.'' She winks. ''You'll have to ask your dad.''

That is when the aforementioned dad hits his breaking point. ''Because she's dead, Ashley!''

The sudden outburst cuts right through Mary's jovial laughter and even makes Sara - trained assassin Sara - jump in her seat. It shouldn't, not when Dean has been so evidently losing it lately, inching closer and closer to his boiling point right in front of her eyes, but she just really didn't expect a gym membership to be the final straw.

It's a gym membership.

''She can't come to the phone and she can't do this herself because she's dead!'' He doesn't seem to give a shit that he's yelling or that his kid's right there, listening to his every word, silent in Sara's arms. He doesn't even seem to realize what he's doing or remember where he is. ''She's not going to use your fucking gym,'' he carries on, oblivious. ''She's dead, okay? She's gone. She doesn't need your pilates and she doesn't need your fucking organic juice bar because she's fucking bones in a basket, Ashley, and I can't keep paying for this stupid membership that no one's gonna use because it's really fucking expensive to die in America and I'm fucking drowning so can you just please, please just cancel the membership so I don't have to keep paying fifty dollars a month for a reminder that my wife is dead?'' There's a brief pause and then he makes a small huffy noise and throws his hands out, exasperated. ''Yeah,'' he mutters, grinding it out through his teeth as he brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. ''I'll hold.''

In the following silence that coats the room, thick and full of tension, Sara knows she should say something, but turns out she doesn't need to.

Mary makes a tiny noise, more of a whine than a whimper, and Dean tenses up, just goes ramrod straight, slowly pulling the phone away from his ear. He ends the call, turns around, and even Sara has to admit that the look on his face when he spots Mary and realizes what he's done is heartbreaking.

No one seems to know what is supposed to happen next.

He makes an attempt, says Mary's name, but she just whines and avoids looking at him, turning to curl into Sara. He tries again, almost pleadingly, stepping into the dining room, and that's when Mary gets pissed. She makes a disgruntled ''harumph'' noise and slides off Sara's lap, stomping away like a grumpy Peanuts character, giving her dad a wide berth and the evil eye as she passes him. He still tries, turning to watch her storm away. ''Honeybee - ''

''No! Go away!'' She points a finger at him, stopping him in his tracks when he tries to follow her. ''You scared me!'' She gives him another absolutely fucking _furious_ glare and ducks into her fort to hide.

He closes his eyes and breathes out, but Sara notices the way his jaw ticks. She spots the helplessness in his body language. She's up and on her feet in an instant, rushing over to him, grabbing onto his arms before he can go after Mary. ''Go cool off,'' she orders. ''I'll talk to her.''

He doesn't argue, which he definitely would normally, turning and disappearing into the kitchen.

She looks over at the fort nervously. She really wishes someone else were here right now. She is not a mother. She is barely an aunt. She doesn't know how to deal with this. How to get a fragile three year old to understand grief when she, an adult, doesn't even understand it herself. Is grief something anyone can ever understand?

She takes a deep breath and crawls into the fort. ''Hey, baby.''

Mary doesn't look over at her, sitting hunched in the corner, holding onto Laurel's shirt like a safety blanket.

''Your dad didn't mean to scare you, Mary.''

''He yelleded.''

''Yelled.''

''That's what I said.''

''He did,'' Sara grimaces. ''He shouldn't have done that, huh?''

Mary stuffs her fingers into her mouth, but does slowly raise her head to look at Sara with her big innocent eyes, shaking her head.

''Sometimes when people get really, really mad, it comes out loud,'' Sara says. ''It just happens. But he shouldn't have scared you like that. I'm sure he's sorry.''

Mary stares at her for a second and then takes her fingers out of her mouth. ''I want Mommy to come rub my tummy.''

''I know.'' There really are no other words that can soothe this specific burn. Laurel could. She could fix this. She was always good at that. Fixing things. Smoothing over the chaos. She could do that with just a smile. Sara will never be able to do that. She doesn’t have that kind of softness in her.

Mary huffs again, a little shakily, face twisted into a tearful pout, and throws herself down onto the pillow, face down.

Sara swallows. ''Do you - Do you want me to rub your tummy?''

''No,'' Mary sniffles. ''Go away.''

''Do you want me to bring your pizza?''

Mary shakes her head.

''Right, um...'' Sara clears her throat, feeling awkward. ''I think I should go talk to your dad for a minute. I won't be long. We still have to play Candyland, right?''

Mary puts Laurel's shirt over her head and says nothing. Not sure if that's a good sign or not.

''Okay.'' Sara reaches out to rub Mary's leg. ''I'll be right back.''

She escapes the fort and pauses to wring her hands. This house is exhausting. She is not meant to be in this position. The role of comforter, of Mom, should not be left to her. She can't be her sister. No one can. She sighs heavily and drags herself over to the kitchen, pausing in front of the door to take a deep breath.

In the kitchen, Dean is standing at the stove, hands braced against it, staring at the remaining slices of the pizza like they're his worst enemy.

She does not mince words. ''What the hell was that?''

He ignores the question. ''Is she okay?''

''I don’t know. She's…'' She gestures to the door. ''She's in her fort. You scared her. She's pissed at you.''

He keeps staring at the dumb pizza. ''I'll...I'll handle it,'' he mumbles weakly. ''I'll talk to her. I just need a minute.''

''Look,'' she bites her bottom lip. ''I get that things are hard right now, but you can't go off like that in front of her. She's – She's three years old.''

''Sara,'' he snaps. ''Can you just – I said I need a minute. Can I have one fucking minute to myself? Is that too much to ask?''

She props her hands up on her hips and tries to glare at him, but it's weak and she gives up after about three seconds. Yeah, whatever, she'll give him a minute.

She takes that minute to look around the kitchen; the pile of dirty dishes, the laundry hamper full of clothes that is, for some reason, on the kitchen table, the widower who looks like he can barely hold himself upright let alone raise a kid all by himself. ''...Are you okay?''

He gets out a laugh. ''No, not really.'' He pulls himself up to stand straight but keeps staring straight ahead at the kitchen backsplash with dull eyes. ''There's a lot to do,’' he says, quiet, overwhelmed. ''And she needs me so much. Mary. She's been all over me all day and I'm so tired and just...touched out. But I'm - I'm it now. I'm all she has. Everyone else - They all have their own lives. People say ''you won't be alone'' when someone dies, but that's not – ‘’ He stops abruptly, clenching his jaw. ‘’People have their own shit. Life has to...go on.'' He grabs a dishtowel, clutching at it tightly, but doesn't actually do anything with it. ''Everything can't just stop because of us.'' He shakes his head, blinking and desperately trying to tug himself out of wherever he is. ''Death used to be different. It was simple.'' He holds onto the dish rag in his hands like it's the only thing keeping his adrift body afloat in the dark waters. ''You burn the body. You move on. Grief is a luxury. Most hunters never really get a chance to mourn who they lose. There's always the next hunt. Can't afford to be weighed down.''

She can't decide if he sounds bitter about that or nostalgic. She would understand either. She has, more than once, missed the numbness of being with the League. Even the dark walled off pain of being with Ivo seems preferable to this. This is...unbearable. She used to be really good at disassociating. She'd check out of reality to avoid what was going on. All the horrific things she endured over those six years. Her brain used to save herself from the pain. She can't do that here. She is shackled to this grief. She can't get away from it. Everywhere she goes, it follows.

She thinks, out of everyone, Dean might understand that the best.

''I understood that. I knew how to do that,'' he says. ''I don’t know how to do this. I’m not a hunter anymore. I'm a civilian. I'm a father and a husband.'' He stops there, clamping his mouth shut. His faces twists up in an odd mixture of helpless confusion and deep sadness. He looks down. ''I _was_ a husband,'' he corrects. He finally looks over at her. ''I guess I'm supposed to feel lucky. I get to mourn now. Lucky, lucky me. It's going fan-fucking-tastic. As you can see.''

''Dean - ''

''There's just,'' he shakes his head again, ''a lot to do.''

As selfish and naive as it may sound, Sara hadn't thought much about that. She tries not to think about grief much in general. It's messy. Her entire life since she got on that boat has been about loss. She spent years grieving who she could have been. It was so intense, so raw, that she didn't have time to consider how other people dealt with it. Then she came home and saw her family and what she did to them. What she broke. And now this...

All she has known for almost a decade is selfish mourning. A tapestry of wreckage. But she's never given much thought to the small details. The mundane aspects of death and what is left behind after the loss. Grief is big and boundless, but it's also really, really small and intricate and sprinkled over everything.

Laurel's clothes still smell like her. Her hair still lingers on her pillow. She still gets mail and has a gym membership and her cell phone still dings with alarms for appointments and things she needed to do. Things she thought she would be doing. There are hospital bills and insurance claims. Clothes in her closet and shampoo in the shower and books on the shelves. There are things she left unfinished. Life does not just stop when the body does.

Dean has to live with that.

As the other half of her, he is the one who has to deal with the rest of their life without her in it. He has to cancel the gym membership. Clean out her desk at work. Tell the telemarketers ''no, she's dead, please take her off the call list.'' Deal with the bank and insurance brokers and whatever else adults who live real lives have to deal with. He has the responsibility of stopping the rest of her life.

And then he has to grieve. He has to be the widower. He has to live with that title. That horrible spotlight. Four years of marriage and a lifetime of loss. He has to accept the sympathy cards and the casseroles the next door neighbors keep sending. He has to figure out what to do with her makeup, her lotions, her hairbrush, and the shoes she left on the floor. He has to live, alone, in the space she used to occupy with nothing but the cold side of the bed and her glasses on the table and her lipstick on the coffee mug he won't wash. He has to raise the child they were supposed to raise together, shoulder the heavy burden of keeping Laurel alive so that Mary has a piece of her mother to hold onto.

He has to stay here, buying avocados he won't eat, choking on what remains - the phantom scent of her perfume, the offerings left at the grave, the flowers that won't stop coming - and mourning his wife and the mother of his child, who she was and who she could have been, the future they didn't get to share, while the rest of the city mourns a mask.

Sara couldn't do it. She wouldn't want to. She'd drown. She has been here for two weeks and she's already drowning. She has a dead sister and she already hates the way people look at her. She can't imagine the way they look at the widower.

''I'm sorry,'' she says honestly. ''Can I help you with anything?''

He says nothing to her, but, very slowly, he gets this look on his face. He looks at her like he's been jolted, with a strangely sudden sort of recognition, as if he has just remembered who she is and realized that she is standing in his kitchen, witnessing what can only be described as a precursor to a nervous breakdown.

He clears his throat and straightens up his posture. ''Have you eaten?'' He looks around the kitchen, somewhat helplessly. ''I just realized I never even offered.'' He gestures to the pizza. ''You're free to have a slice, but I know you hate sausage on pizza. Pretty sure Mary is the only one who likes this shitty pizza.''

''I'm fine,'' she says, but, really what she wants to know is how he knew about her hatred of sausage on pizza.

''I could make you something,'' he says, completely ignoring her dismissal. ''We don't have a lot right now.'' He turns to open the fridge. ''We were supposed to go grocery shopping after Mary's PT but she was sore and cranky and I didn't have the energy to deal with a screaming kid in the checkout lane. We came home and had a nap instead.'' He shuts the fridge, pulling his phone back out to scroll through his messages. ''Also just realized that I never actually sent that text to Cas so...'' He shrugs and jerks his thumb at the fridge. ''Sylvia Denton dropped off a tuna casserole yesterday. It needs salt, but it should probably be eaten.''

Ew.

''I'm really okay,'' she says, leaning back against the counter, watching him sink into a seat at the breakfast nook. ''You know you can get groceries delivered now?''

''They always botch the produce,'' he says. ''Laurel doesn't want anyone picking out her...'' He trails off, the words dying in his throat. He closes his eyes and leans down, scrubbing at his face. ''Yeah,'' he clears his throat. ''Guess I could try that. Maybe tomorrow.''

She bites down on her bottom lip, unsure. ''Dean, I - I'm not sure how to, um...'' Cautiously, she moves away from the counter to take a seat across from him. ''Have you been to the grave recently?''

He doesn't even look at her, too busy fiddling with his wedding ring. ''Not since they put the new headstone in. Why?''

''Well, there's all this...'' She trails off. She's not sure how to proceed with this. How he'll take it. ''People have been leaving things for her.''

He has little reaction to that other than a tired sigh. ''I know. Started after I had the headstone put in. Thea told me about it. I think it's the picture.''

''I...took pictures of it,'' she confesses, and tries not to cringe at how stupid that sounds when she says it out loud.

''Why?''

''I don't know. I thought maybe Mary - When she's older obviously... I thought she might want to see.'' She slouches in the seat. It feels, suddenly, like a foolish thing to do. He's not looking at her like he thinks she's some dumb kid, but he has a rather...probing gaze sometimes, reminiscent of her sister, and it's getting to her. ''I want her to know that her mom was loved.''

''She'll know that,'' he says. ''She knows that. Shrine or no shrine.''

''It's...nice,'' she says. ''What people are doing.''

''I guess.''

''There are letters. Drawings. Food. Stuff from kids, adults.'' She swallows something down and tries to get through it. She tries to tell herself that the gnawing feeling in her stomach is just hunger. ''Black Canary meant a lot.''

He doesn't argue with that, but he doesn't look particularly comforted by it.

She understands. She wouldn't say she's comforted by it either. Her dead sister is an icon now. That's great. Super. She took that stupid, slightly cruel and mocking Saint Laurel nickname from when they were bitchy teenagers and made it a reality. Good for her. She was loved then and she's adored now. They'll build her a monument and make her a messiah because they're afraid of what will happen to them without someone like her. Whatever. Fucking awesome. Bully for them.

But you want to know the bitter truth? Sara couldn't give two shits about the Black Canary. She has nothing on Laurel Lance. But no one will remember her. They'll remember the martyr, but no one will care enough to remember the woman. The human underneath all that leather. The one who had a family waiting for her. A city lost their ''beacon of hope'' or whatever meaningless, saccharine title they have decided to give her, but a child lost her mother. Will they remember that? Will they remember that two parents lost their child? That a husband lost his wife? That she lost her sister?

Years from now, when she is a distant memory, when she will have undoubtedly been replaced by whoever Oliver plucks off the streets, will people remember that Dinah Laurel Lance, the Black Canary, had a family? Will they even care?

No.

Time is the only constant in this life, and it moves fast. People move on because they have to. They forget about the tragedies of the past. The legacy of Black Canary might remain, but sooner or later, people will forget about Laurel. They can bring as many flowers and stones as they want to her gravesite, but they'll all leave her behind eventually.

None of that brings Sara any comfort.

''She shouldn't have been there that night.''

For whatever reason, when he hears that slip out, Dean laughs. ''I really, really agree with you.''

Sara stares down at her hands. ''I didn't want her to get mixed up in this.''

''Neither did I.''

She looks over at him. She tries to ignore the simmering anger in her throat. ''Then why did you let her do this? Why let her put on that mask when you knew how it could end?''

''Let her?'' His reaction is relatively mild, considering. If she didn't know better, she would say he almost looks faintly amused. ''You think I should've controlled my wife? Didn't know you were so old fashioned.''

She rolls her eyes. She can perhaps understand why he would be offended by what she said and maybe she shouldn't have said it, maybe she's wrong, but she is so sick and tired of pretending she's not angry. She's fucking pissed. She left here and Laurel was _alive._ She was thriving. Happy and healthy for the first time in years. And now she's dead. She's dead because she was failed. Every one of them failed her and it makes Sara so angry that it turns her stomach. What good is the Green Arrow if he can't keep his own teammates alive? What's the point of marrying a Winchester if he's just going to sit on his ass and do fuck all while you bleed out on the concrete? Sara trusted these people, these useless weasels, to keep Laurel safe.

Instead, they got her killed.

And where the fuck was she?

She could have stayed. She should have stayed. After everything she put Laurel through, all the pain and grief and betrayal, she still brought her back. And what did she do with her shiny new eleventy billionth second chance? Fucked off to go gallivanting around history like some shitty off brand comic book character. She would have protected her sister. She wouldn't have let her die.

And what about Laurel, that reckless, self-righteous, stupidly brave woman who couldn't keep her nose out of anything. She had no business becoming a vigilante. She has a child. She owed it to Mary to stay alive and she couldn't even do that.

Sara's nails dig into her palm and she chews on her lip until she tastes blood. She is so tired of pretending that all she feels is sadness. She is not full of melancholy. She is full of _rage._ None of this had to happen. This wasn't fated. This isn't some unforeseen tragedy either. This is a fucking outrage. This is bullshit.

She looks over at the fridge, seeking out the picture of Laurel, held in place by a magnet shaped like a squirrel. It's from last Christmas. Laurel is standing in front of the Christmas tree in her red dress with Mary on her hip. She's smiling, almost laughing for the camera and she looks so vibrant, so fucking alive that it just makes Sara feel worse. She is so tangled up in how unfair this is that her body feels restless.

Nobody helped her sister. Nobody saved her. They just stood there and let it happen. They caused this. All of them. Including her. And including Laurel.

''She was stupid.'' She doesn't mean to say it out loud, but she can't help but blurt it out. ''And reckless,'' she hisses. ''You can't just take a couple self-defense classes and decide to become a vigilante. That's fucking stupid. You know what that is?'' She looks at the picture of her sister and spits out, coldly, ''That's asking for it.''

''Fifteen years of self-defense classes and extensive training from at least four different highly trained people,'' Dean says. He says it rather mildly, uncharacteristically blasé and seemingly unbothered by Sara's scathing review of his wife's antics. ''Including me.'' He looks at her, meeting her eyes, serious but still unwilling to turn up the heat. ''I trained her. Your terrifying ex trained her. She could've taken on you and won, kiddo. That bother you?''

''She drowned in her own blood,'' Sara retorts, and that - that gets him. There's a flinch, barely noticeable, and he can't look her in the eye anymore. ''That bothers me,'' she whispers. ''What she did was foolish and arrogant and you - '' She points a finger at him. ''You should have protected her. You should have stopped her. That was your job. All you had to do was protect her.'' She sounds more pleading than angry, even though she can feel it burning in her gut. ''Your training was nothing. It did nothing. You sent her out there and you got her killed. All of you!''

He takes it surprisingly well. Just nods and offers her a quiet, ''I know.''

''You should've been with her,'' she accuses angrily, and almost chokes on the words. ''You should've been right by her side. You should've known he would never protect her. He can't even protect himself. You should have known how impulsive and careless she was with her own life.''

''Yes, I should've,'' he agrees. ''I should've. 'Cause it runs in the family, right?'' He narrows his eyes slightly, but still remains eerily calm and quiet. ''You people - Your family - You do what you want, don't you? Consequences be damned. You and your sister just run around throwing your lives away and this is somehow my fault? How many deaths does this make for you two?'' He shakes his head at her. ''Let's hope Mary lives past thirty.''

''So where were you?'' She demands. ''If you knew she was throwing her life away, where were you when she needed you? What good are you if you can't even keep her alive? What's your worth, Dean? What's the point of you?''

''I don't know!'' That's where he snaps, thundering out the words so loudly she jumps. He rises to his feet, taking a few steps away from her, keeping his back to her. ''I don't know.'' He draws in a few shaky sounding breaths and scrubs a hand over his face before turning back to her. ''What do you want from me, Sara?''

''I want you to fix this,'' she cries out.

He looks frustrated. ''How?''

''Just - '' She feels like she is crumbling apart. ''Just give her back.'' She barely manages to get out the words before she, embarrassingly, starts sobbing. He doesn't attempt to comfort her, not that she really deserves his comfort. ''Laurel's dead,'' she blubbers. ''She was right here when I left and now she's not. And she won't ever be not dead again and I can't make her stop being dead and now - now who - '' She stops, clenching her teeth together in a hopeless attempt not to say it because it's absurd and embarrassing. She tries. She doesn't want to say it, but she says it anyway, the pathetic words pouring out of her mouth. ''Who's gonna take care of me now?''

He laughs at her quietly, though it's not an unkind laugh. ''Sara,'' he says. His voice is softer than she deserves. ''When have you ever needed her to take care of you?''

It's probably valid, but all she hears is _when have you ever needed her_ and it feels like a slap in the face because - because she needs her all the time. She's always needed her. Did she not make that clear? Did Laurel not know?

She misses her sister. So much. It hurts to breathe without her here. Laurel was always her one constant. No matter what, no matter where she went, how far away she roamed, Laurel was always here when she got back, waiting in the wings, ready to welcome her home. Now it's like she's just...adrift. She was her best friend. She was her person. Her soft place to land. Who is she without her? ''It was because of me,'' she gulps out. ''She did it because of me.'' She is trying really hard to pull herself together and stop crying because she doesn't do this, she doesn't cry in front of people, but her eyes keep going to the picture on the fridge and she keeps thinking about the hole in her chest where Laurel should be. She keeps thinking about Mary calling a shirt Mommy because she doesn’t have anything else anymore. She keeps thinking about the jacket by the door that her dead sister who died at thirty like a goddamn Sylvia Plath poem will never wear again. It hurts. It hurts too much. Not just the grief and the anger, but the guilt. ''If I hadn't been on that roof,'' she mumbles. ''If I hadn't gotten on that boat. She would still be here. None of this would have happened.''

Dean doesn't look annoyed by her breakdown, but he doesn't look like he has the patience for it either. He still tears a piece of paper towel from the roll and hands it over. ''Sure,'' he says, ''but at what cost? If you hadn't gotten on that boat, there would be no Mary and Laurel would probably be married to Oliver and - really - what kind of life is that?''

It's not clear if that's supposed to be a joke. ''That's not funny.''

He casually leans back against the counter. ''I thought it was funny.''

Sara sniffles and tries to wipe away the tears on her face, still hiccupping out sobs and miserably trying to catch her breath. She thinks she has cried more over the past couple of weeks than when she was first fished out of the sea. How did Laurel do this? How did she go through this kind of grief and make it through? How did she do it _twice?_ This is excruciating.

She can't even imagine what her father must be going through.

Or Dean.

She tries to inconspicuously look up at him to study him for cracks. He is leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed, not looking at her but obviously waiting for her to get over her meltdown.

Her father cries. A lot. She has a feeling he drinks too. She's never seen Dean cry, not really, and she knows he doesn't drink, but he doesn't sleep either and his eyes are always red. She wonders if it's easier for him, at least a little, because he has Mary. He will never have to forget Laurel's eyes. She is alive in that little girl, a brilliant spark in her eyes, and he gets to see that every day. Does that make it easier? Better? Does that make the grief lighter?

...No. No, probably not.

Dean looks over at her after a solid minute of staring at the picture on the fridge. ''Look, Sara,'' his voice is quiet, serious. ''I'm not trying to be an ass, but have you ever considered that maybe, just maybe, not everything is about you?''

She snaps her attention back to him with narrowed eyes.

He doesn't budge. ''I'd love to blame this on you,'' he says, which is...candid. ''You have no idea how much easier that would be for me. To make this your fault. Or Oliver's. I want to blame your parents. I want to blame the whole world that sacrificed her without her permission so your fucking dad could feel bad about it. But I can't.'' He gives her this rueful half smile. ''You happened to be the spark that lit the match, but she held that match in her hand for her entire life just waiting for something to set it on fire. She was..'' He pauses. Has to wait for a minute to be able to say it. ''She was always going to put on that mask. Her whole life was leading up to that moment. No one could have stopped her. Not me, not Oliver, not your dad, and definitely not you. You happened to be the catalyst. I'm sorry you have to live with that now. It must suck to have that on your shoulders.''

She looks down at the soggy paper towel clenched in her useless fist. Her useless hands that did nothing to save Laurel. It does suck to have to life with this. It's horrible to be left behind.

''But you need to know,'' he goes on, still speaking quietly but firmly, ''that even if you hadn't died, she still would have found her way to Black Canary. No matter how it was going to end. She was born for it. Everything she did this past year - It was what she believed to be right. All she ever wanted to do was help people - and she did. She saved a lot of lives. I'm proud of that. I'm proud of her. Aren't you?''

Maybe someday.

Maybe someday she'll be able to look back and remember Laurel with nothing but grace and love and forgiveness. She'll be able to think of her and smile and feel so proud of the wonderful things that her big sister, the Black Canary, the first superhero to be unmasked, did in her short but amazing life. But not today.

A few weeks ago, Sara came home, practically vibrating with anticipation and excitement, happy and ready to tell her sister about all the things she'd done, all the things she'd seen, and her father took her to a fresh grave instead. There is no pride in that. There is no mercy or grace. There is just unendurable pain.

Her sister died. Her sister was murdered. She left and Sara hadn't been there to save her or help her or hold her hand. She didn't even get a goodbye. Nobody tried to get in touch with her. Less than a year ago, Laurel dug Sara out of the ground and brought her to Nanda Parbat and put her in the Lazarus Pit and gave her life with her own two hands. Now Sara will never ever be able to return that favor.

And Rip Hunter knew.

The whole time, he knew. She worked with him for months, stood by his side, and he _knew._ He knew what was going to happen.

Sara looks up at Dean slowly. ''I'm angry,'' she whispers. ''...I'm angry.'' Her hold on the paper towel tightens. ''Aren't you?''

Something unidentifiable - longing, perhaps - crosses his face but he manages to square it away in record time. ''I'm tired.''

''This shouldn't have happened,'' she declares. ''None of this should be happening. It's not fair.''

''Life's not fair,'' is his retort, still eerily calm. ''What made you think death would be?''

It sounds like something Laurel would have said.

Sara turns to look out the kitchen window into the backyard where Laurel's garden is slowly dying of neglect. She closes her eyes and tries to picture her, as she was, before she was nothing but bones, before April. She is quiet for what feels like a long time. ''...Where do you think she is now?'' She turns back to him and he isn't quite able to cover up the pain on his face before she can see it. ''I don't remember where I was when I was...'' She clears her throat. ''I don't remember much at all actually. So I don't... I don't know where she is now.'' She sniffles and tries unsuccessfully to blink away the tears burning in her eyes. ''I hope she's happy.''

Dean looks like a raw nerve ending. Electrified with agony. He shifts on his feet for a second, uncomfortable, and she thinks he won't answer the question. When he does, his voice sounds shaky and strained, but earnest. ''I hope she's in the sun.''

She can't quite put her finger on what it is about his solemn words, but she thinks it might be the warmest, most loving thing she has ever heard him say about Laurel. It's a kindness, like the flowers and the stones and the candles at her grave.

Laurel loved the sun.

She glowed in the warm light.

The kitchen door creaks open a tiny bit, enough for a sliver of Mary's face to be visible, cutting off whatever reply Sara might have stuttered out, and Dean switches right back on. It's instant. He pushes off the counter to open the door for her and Sara quickly wipes at her eyes one last time with her sleeve, tossing the paper towel. Mary slips into the kitchen, but hesitates around her dad, peering up at him with her big doe eyes as if she is unsure if he is going to start yelling again.

''Hi, honeybee,'' he greets softly, with a smile.

That's enough for her. She thrusts her arms up at him, silently demanding to be picked up. He obliges instantly, lifting her up into his arms and she winds her arms around his neck and puts her head on his shoulder.

''Hey,'' he smoothes hair out of her face. ''I'm sorry I yelled. That wasn't nice.''

She nods in agreement, but doesn't speak.

''Are you okay?'' He asks, loud enough for Sara to hear but quiet enough that it's obvious this is just for them.

She nods.

''You sure?''

Another nod.

''You wanna play Candyland before bath time?''

She perks up, nodding a little more enthusiastically.

He grins at her, kissing the top of her head. ''Okay, let's go eat some pizza and play Candyland. Auntie Sara needs a minute so we can start without her, sound good?'' He waits for her to nod and then tosses a quick look over his shoulder. ''Better hurry up, Auntie Sara,'' he says. ''We're not waiting forever.'' He grabs the rest of the pizza and then he and Mary are gone.

She means to move. Get her shit together, get to her feet, get out there, and kick ass at Candyland because she needs to do that for her niece and because she is _great_ at Candyland. She's a shark. She stays where she is, feeling stuck and too weighed down to move. She just...wants her back. Is that so bad? She wants the people she loves to be alive, safe, and healthy so that she has something to fight for and something to come home to. She wants her father to be able to stop grieving - for once. To be able to stop mourning his perpetually dying daughters. To lie in his bed at night, sober, knowing that his girls are alive and that he can rest easy. She wants Mary to have her mom because her mom was so fucking good, so full of the exact kindness a child needs, and it's not fair that she only got three years with her and that she will, over time...

She'll forget her.

Sara presses her lips together to keep something in. Mary will not remember her mom. It's inevitable. She's so little and there's so much life ahead of her. She won't have any choice in the matter. She will leave Laurel behind.

They all will.

She sighs heavily and slumps back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling. She rubs at her forehead, grimacing at the tingling pain in her skull, the beginnings of a headache. After a minute, she sits up straight and pulls out the folded piece of paper with that dramatic Plath poem on it. She still does not understand why this specific poem was left at Laurel's grave. It does not feel particularly mournful. It feels almost wicked. But she does have to admit, as she reads the poem again and again, that she pauses when she reaches one particular line.

_''Dying is an art,''_ the poem reads, _''like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.''_

She wants to laugh suddenly. Until her sides her. Yeah, certainly sounds like a poem for a Lance sister. The only difference is the woman in the poem came back, just like Sara came back. Laurel won't come back. She can't. No one will let her.

Sara tries not to conjure up an image of Laurel, underground, pleading to be let out. Laurel, on the other side, banging at the door and asking to come back.

She gets to her feet, throws the piece of paper with the poem on it in the trash, and decides to forget about it. Put it out of her mind. It was probably just some weird super fan's pretentious attempt at grieving. She looks, one last time, at the picture on the fridge.

Years ago, when they were teenagers, there was this one song that Laurel used to listen to on repeat. It was extremely grating. It was this indie breakup ballad called [Your Ex-Lover Is Dead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5Or6-HOveg). It's kind of hilarious, in retrospect, and ironic - and it probably means something, but none of that is important anymore. It was never Sara's kind of music. Too soft and poppy and deep, kind of like Laurel.

For some reason, despite the fact that she has not heard the song since like 2007, Sara has not been able to get that stupid song out of her head since she first saw that grave. She wants to believe it's like a...a message. She wants to believe it's Laurel, somehow telling her that it's okay, that she's still there, but she knows that's not it. Call it grief, call it guilt, call it whatever you want, but it is the only music she has been able to hear for weeks.

_Live through this,_ the song says, and _you won't look back._

It sounds like a lie to her.

How is she supposed to live through this? How is she supposed to not look back? Back is the only place her sister is now. She's in that picture on the fridge. She's in that picture on her headstone, happy and hopeful and so vibrantly, brilliantly alive on her wedding day. Those are the only places she remains now. In the pictures and the smell of her shirt and the shampoo in the bathroom and her daughter’s eyes. How is Sara supposed to _not_ look back?

She doesn't know what's going to happen next. She doesn't know how to move forward without Laurel, how to grieve and heal, how she's supposed to move on or ever be happy again, but she does know one thing. It has been made abundantly clear to her over the past couple of weeks.

She doesn't think she can be here.

This house, this family, this city, this mourning. She cannot live in the thick of it. She thought she could, she said she would, she promised Mary, she promised her she would finally stay, but this whole place is just soaked in grief and pity. And Laurel. She's everywhere now. There is nowhere free of her touch. There is nowhere free of her absence either.

If it's just going to be like this, if it's just going to be endless suffering and agonizing pain, Sara doesn't think she can do it. She is not that strong. Maybe Laurel could do it, remain in this ghost town even with all these reminders of what she's lost, but evidently, Sara is not her sister.

She understands where the people of this city are coming from with their tokens of grief and gratitude. They're scared and hurting and it never stops. They have been traumatized and victimized by domestic terrorism and batshit villains - repeatedly, she might add - at least once a year. Star City is corrupt and their crime rate rivals even Gotham's. Now that they've got their angel, they're going to cling to her for as long as they can, regardless of what the truth is, regardless of how little they knew her, and Sara can't blame them for that, but she doesn't want to have to see it. She can't just sit here and watch this city's fumbling attempt to immortalize her sister by turning her into their weird modern day Princess Diana.

Even Princess Diana didn't want to be Princess Diana. That was, like, the whole thing, right? It's not what Laurel would have wanted either. She wanted to help, not be worshipped and idolized. Sara is very aware that leaving would be selfish. Her father is coming apart at the seams, Dean isn't doing much better, and there is a three year old caught up in the middle of all this who desperately needs an adult – one who isn't collapsing under the heavy weight of loss - to take care of her. Sara could be that for her. She could take care of her. She could step into Laurel's shoes and keep the promise she made to Mary. Except she can’t. She wants to be the person everyone needs her to be right now, but she can't sit here in her sister's shadow and suffocate. She can't keep going to that grave every day, watching the flowers come and go, withering the same way Laurel is six feet underground.

Besides, this is what she does best, isn't it?

She's a runner. She runs.

It has never been in her to stay.

She looks out the window again, watching the sun dip low in the sky. Beams of warm light stream through the apple tree in the backyard, the dying garden that will never bloom the same ever again, and she thinks of Laurel's smile the last time she saw her.

She thinks of all the things Laurel loved: Terrible music and boring movies and sad books and [that one Wallflowers song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yjbzUEJONNU). High heels and dark lipstick and the color blue and Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Flowers and documentaries and The Princess Bride and David Bowie and fresh summer strawberries. Love stories and stories about love stories and human connection and Dean Winchester and her daughter. Her daughter. More than anything in the world, she loved Mary. Always, always Mary.

And Sara. She loved her baby sister so much. She loved her fiercely, with a kind of depth and meaning that Sara doesn't think she will ever be able to comprehend from her side of the table. She gave her a second chance without thinking twice about it. She gave her life. Who does that? Who risks that much just for one person?

Sara tries to remember the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand against her cheek, the way her arms felt around her, how she never asked anything of her, never wanted anything but for her to be happy and alive.

She picks at her cuticles, eyes glued to the garden she can just barely see through the sunlight. If she leaves here, she's going to have to make it count. It can't be just running. She has to run toward something. She has to make a difference. She has to be the person Laurel always knew she could be.

Rip told her it was a fixed timeline. He told her she couldn't save her sister without dooming the rest of her family. There are things in life bigger than her. There are rules. You cannot fight death.

Sara Lance has never really been a big fan of rules.

If she leaves here and breaks the promise she made to Mary, she will not come back until she can bring Laurel back with her.

Fixed timeline or not.

She owes her sister a debt, you see, and one way or another, she intends to repay it.

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from both the Hole album of the same name (which has somehow become a big part of my writing process for HTLGI) but also is obviously a line from the song ''Your Ex-Lover Is Dead'' by Stars, mentioned in the fic.
> 
> The Anne Sexton quote from the beginning comes from her poem ''The Truth The Dead Know.''
> 
> All poetry excerpts in this come from ''Lady Lazarus'' by Sylvia Plath.


End file.
